Francis grimaces at the sight, and starts towards Wójcik without thinking, hand half-raising to offer help - then, thinking better of it, he clears his throat and makes himself pull back and sit in the other chair. He has to admit that sitting is more help to his own condition than he cares to think; he had not really realised how shaky his legs felt, or how light his head, until he took some of the strain from himself.

He runs both hands up over his face, leaving smears of half-dried animal blood as he does so, and takes a deep breath. This is not at all how he imagined his night going, and to tell the truth, all he wants is for it to be over; to be back in his own (far more modest) rented room, clean and without half-listening for another howl, and to spend a good hour or two with his books before bed. Or, actually, just to go to bed. Sitting down has also made him realise how immensely tired he feels.

"Do you have bandages?" he asks aloud, looking around the room as though they might be lying on a tabletop or hanging from a peg. "We ought to have asked for those, as well. Drat."